Blood of Yahvo
by Peter-Harris
Summary: This is the sequel to my story "Book of Reeves" it's the story of his son as he goes from slave to his father to liberation and his journey to the cleft.
1. Default Chapter

There is so much to tell, and I can scarcely imagine where to begin.

My father was consumed with the pride of the D'ni, he spent every day of his life writing and linking. He visited the people of the ages he wrote, and took their culture from them and introduced D'ni culture into them. He took their land, their people, and their trees. He taught them to write, and then left them.

He called himself a missionary.

My father, the Great Reeves of D'ni, savior of the D'ni that fled the disease and lived in slavery, was a king to the common people, and a murderer in my eyes.

He blamed it on faulty writers and impure blood when the cultures he introduced began to link to unstable ages and never return.

They were primitive peoples, and believed it to be another sign that the D'ni were gods, and that they were imperfect and flawed races.

He married to a woman well above his years, but she was a logical choice, much more intelligent and wiser than he.

However there was little love between them, and he referred to her in his journals and his speeches to the people as a partner and a guide, rather than his wife. He believed this was the proper way to treat another of his kind.

He had no love. No love for his wife, his only son, or the people that he saved. Of course there are legends, legends say that at one time he did love his wife, and that he loved the people very much, but there are people who believe legends are half truth and half exaggeration.

I am the son of Reeves, and my name is M'buhir. It was a name chosen for me by my mother, whose name I have forgotten, my father scarcely said it, and the lack of water today causes much forgetfulness.

I remember the reason though, like the scar across my face, why she named me it. She told me that she had a dream that I would lead, and that I would one day hold much power. In her culture, the diluted D'ni, as my father called them, M'buhir meant Incomprehensible power, or in short, Omnipotent.

She hoped that a name like this would bless me, though as you will soon know, it only cursed me into weakness.

The people call me M'buhir Roreeves, I cannot escape my fathers name, and my father has already chosen me as his heir.

Heir to a swamp.

But his intentions were not altogether in the favor of his people.

He abused his power, and forced many of the Weak into being his bookmakers and inkmakers. He told the people during his speeches that these so called "Weak" were being given another chance to become stronger by serving in a special guild.

Though I haven't seen the rooms where they are made, I have seen his books.

The paper smells of sweat and the ink is uneven with areas of red.

The ages aren't unstable according to physics, and they show no bizarre signs that would show them to be condemned unstable ages.

The first is Hootsayth, it means Achievement. It was the first age he wrote and it reflects humbleness. It is the forest age and it hears.

The second is Tsahno Mahn, it is the everlasting existence and the beginning of pride. It is the jungle age and it sees.

The third is Shoo Yahr, its name means Dead Day, for it was written during my father's mourning over the death of his wife. It is a dark age, and it speaks.

The fourth is Gahro Hevtee, for by the time it was written, his pride was already enormous, and he dwelled in his greatness daily. It is the Garden Age, and it deceives.

They are the Blood Ages.

When my father discovered their amazing powers he constructed pillars for them. They reach above his palace where they can see, hear, and speak. When the maintainers (that is, those that maintain the pillars and guard them) near them, they are often said to feel watched and violated. The books are supernatural, and they are feared by even my father.

My story begins on the day of the anniversary of my mother's death. I am 17 flood season's old, and my father is teaching me the precious art.


	2. Chapter 2

My father was not aware of what he was doing, nor was I.

The pillars that held the Blood Books were a sacred place, it has slowly become a bit of a temple and place of worship to us. Every day my father and many of his servants bow in it's direction, even many of the civilians do, for the books told us "When no soul worships us, it will be the end of your people."

Many people don't believe that the books speak. It is said that there are even some that don't even believe they exist, just made up by my father to keep people in line, and keep them worshipping him and his books.

Many people fear this time. They know there is a transition of power coming, soon I will inherit the swamp, and many think that I am the one prophesized by the books to destroy them. For it was told "there will be one of the holy line that will bring destruction to the land, and he will attempt to destroy us."

However there are those that believe in the contrary, that I will be a savior from my father's reign and that I will lower the pillars that hold the Blood Books so that their ages may be explored.

But all this does not matter at the moment, right now I have a lesson.

M'buhir stood from his desk. It was made out of a wood common to the swamps, his father had called it the sacred wood, for it was the wood that was ground into paper. It was a rich red color similar to redwood.

M'buhir glanced around his room, making sure he remembered every detail, the black and white picture of his mother, his small bed, the desk, and the lanterns. The lanterns were candles, placed in round glass orbs to simulate a firemarble.

The room was carved out of rock, the rock that was originally the only solid ground in the entire swamp, but now it was the palace itself. This made his room appear very dark, and it made the walls damp and it smelled of mildew. More like a small dungeon than the bedroom of a prince.

He turned the stone doorknob of his door and opened it, facing his tutor at last.

"Roreeves, I knocked several times! Did you not hear me?!" His tutor demanded.

M'buhir remained silent and stared at the floor instead.

"Dear me, Roreeves how will you ever take the throne if you refuse to speak?" His tutor taunted.

"I speak when I must. If I did not answer the door when you asked me to, it is obvious I didn't hear you." M'buhir replied. He was always like this, which struck much fear into his teachers. He spoke to them not as if his father was the king, for he spoke this way even to his father. It made everyone feel as if he was trying to sound superior.

"Roreeves, your father instructed me to take you to the writing room for today's lesson, do you know why?" she asked.

"Yes. He wishes to begin teaching me the art." M'buhir's voice was very deep for his age, though also very quiet, just enough that one had to pay very close attention to him in order to hear him correctly.

The tutor said nothing else and instead began walking in the direction that he was expected to follow.

The area outside of M'buhir's bedroom was bright and very beautiful. It was one of the many large balconies that overlooked the swamp and the village. The floor was polished and large marble pillars held up the ceiling. The marble was imported from another age of course.

The walk to the writing room was not that far, and to M'buhir, a well known path for when his father was not around he spent much time in there studying. He studied about the other ages, writing, and his favorite, D'ni legend.

As they approached the door M'buhir could hear people arguing inside. His tutor stopped and motioned for M'buhir not to enter. They stood silent and motionless for nearly more minutes before a frustrated man burst out of the room. He was wearing one of the Guild cloaks, but it was an unfamiliar. It was black with crimson trim and the man wore a necklace with a golden pendant showing a ruby eye surrounded by four books.

The man shouted several things in the village language and then departed angrily.

The tutor motioned for M'buhir to go into the writing room, and then closed the door behind him.

He was now alone with his father.

They stared at each other silently for several minutes.

"Are you curious why you skipped your first class this morning?" his father asked.

"No. I believe I know why I'm here." M'buhir replied, and at this his father cringed.

"Okay, enlighten me." His father laughed, for he hadn't told anyone why exactly he had invited M'buhir.

"If you wish to philosophy I propose we choose a much longer segment of time for enlightenment. But if by 'enlighten me' you meant, 'tell me what you think', then the answer is that I believe I am here to learn the art." M'buhir said, a faint smile on his lips. He knew exactly how to push his father's buttons. But he was only going to push this far, he didn't want to lose a chance at learning the art.

His father stared directly into M'buhir's eyes, anger was clearly seen on his face.

"Who told you that?! I didn't tell _anyone_ that I was going to teach you!" his father screamed.

"I guessed. I noticed that you ordered the book makers to make more books last week, and the ink makers more ink. You ordered a new pen from the pen makers, and even instructed one man to carve my initials into it. The people have lips…"  
"And what has lips speaks." His father finished the proverb. So rumors had spread about the orders and the people had put two and two together, and instead of four they got wise. "However, I've cancelled the lesson for today. The books spoke today." His father said with a grim face.

M'buhir's face did something to, but instead of getting grim it went completely pale. The books only spoke when something big was happening or about to happen, or in a rare occasion, to remind the village to worship. M'buhir wanted to ask what they said, but it was none of his business.

"They asked me to bring you." His father's voice trembled.

M'buhir's face went even more pale and he sweated. A few years ago the books asked for a young male to be brought to them, and he was struck dead. The books said he was payment for their sins and a reminder of what they could do. Surely, a dead prince would shake the hearts of the disbelievers.

"anything… else?" M'buhir's voice cracked.

"Nothing. They demanded that you go there and stand before them alone." Having said that, his father clapped his hands and two men entered, wearing the same clothes as the men before.

"These people will escort you." His father said then turned away, refusing to watch them take his son away.


End file.
